O Captain, Our Captain
by abhorrent
Summary: Steve finds himself entertaining an old tradition, but in the process finds himself in some new company. His loyal teammates, and him, all share a moment on the roof of Stark Towers.


_Well, I've officially jumped on the Avengers bandwagon. Why do I do this to myself? Oh, yeah, because I fell in love with Captain America. This story is kind of pointless, kind of a team bonding thing, I don't know. I just love Steve._

_Enjoy!_

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"**O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;  
Rise up-for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills;  
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths-for you the shores a-crowding;  
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning" -Walt Whitman**

* * *

He wants to deny himself the pleasure—to ignore the ache in his chest and just, for once, pretend that the past wasn't always fraying the edges of his future—but he finds himself drawn to the expansive bar. And, before he knows it, he had poured himself a glass of some unnamed brandy and was currently rifling around for the cigars. With a choked laugh, he finds immeasurable joy in entertaining the idea that it's just as hard to find cigars in Stark Tower as it had been in the 40s.

But, he finds them, and with a set look he finds his way up the tower and onto the roof. With a grunt he seats himself, legs dangling over the tower, and all he can do is stare, awestruck, as he finally and _fully_ takes a look at the city he had loved for so many years. There's another flare in his chest, and he turns his gaze, willing the throbbing pain to recede. He glances down at his cigar, sighs, and fiddles around in his pockets before finding his cigar-cutter. Going through the routines of prepping a cigar was always something he found pleasure in. No one knew—except, he assumed, for Stark, who seemed to always try to hide his "expensive" cigars—that after a battle, Steve was apt to enjoy a moment of silence and a cigar. No one would understand, either.

He sips at his drink, wincing in appreciation as the liquid burns his throat, and lights his cigar after some effort on the wind's part. As he inhales, the familiar scent harkens him to a different era. He closes his eyes, and suddenly he is in a dingy French bar somewhere in the underbelly of the Alps, surrounded by his team as they drank themselves into a stupor. The music would blare, the women would dance, and eventually they'd all find themselves up and singing. Moments where the war didn't matter, the body count didn't matter, and no one would have to worry about losing a brother; if for only a moment.

However, after every battle won, there would always be a time in which they'd hold a vigil, light their cigars and just sit in silence for a moment to just appreciate what they have. They had their lives, while others did not, thanks to them. They were killing men who believed in the same things they did: that _their_ side was doing the right thing. The thing about war that always bothered Steve was that people never saw that point. Both sides fight for what they believe is right. No one is the bad guy in their own eyes.

Sighing, he resigns himself to another puff of his cigar and chases the taste with a languid sip. Allowing the nostalgia to take over, he loses himself in the familiar scent of the cigar. He revels in the fact that, at the very least, cigars hadn't changed much in almost 70 years. He smiles at the thought, but is distracted when he hears a shuffle from behind. He turns to see one Tony Stark, who seems to be brandishing his own liquor and tobacco. The man returns the gaze with an awkward jerk of the lips that Steve could only assume was meant to be a smile.

Steve offered the man a small smile, and gestured vaguely to the area beside him. "If you're going to bother me, it might as well be face-to-face."

At that, the man snorted, but sauntered over anyway. "Yeah, and risk you getting fed up with my bullshit and finally tossing me off of the Tower? I'm watching you, Cap."

Steve laughed, before propping the cigar between his lips and leaning back on his arms. The wind whipped at his face, his hair beating down on his brow, but he could only feel content. "It's strange," he began, and turned his face to his companion, who only raised a brow.

"What is strange?"

Steve entertained the thought for a moment, before continuing. "It's strange how one tiny, insignificant gesture," he points to his cigar, "can bring back so many memories. Good, and bad, I'll say. How, out of all of the things I'd done in the war, smoking cigars and polishing off liquor bottles with my team are the most prevalent of my memories."

Again, a sigh, and the two find themselves in momentary silence. It's Stark who breaks it.

"But that's how it should be," At the Captain's confused expression, he reiterates, "That's how it should be, remembering the good times of the war. You should want to remember your friends. The good memories are what keeps the bad ones at bay."

Steve smiles at the man, appreciating the knowledge the man has to offer. "I'm surprised you're not wondering why I'm up here."

The billionaire shrugs, takes a long sip from his glass, and takes a few appreciative tokes, "I've seen you do it after a few battles, figured 'Hey! That must be his thing,' and tried not to pick on you for it," he then glares at the soldier, "And, for the record, it was Pepper who told be to play nice."

As if for added emphasis, he lightly punches the super soldier in the arm. Steve smiles.

"I'm sorry if this comes off as strange," he sighs, "it's just a silly tradition I can't seem to let go of."

Tony offers him a genuine smile, before polishing off his drink. Steve shadows the man before staring down at his now-empty glass. A memory flashes through his mind, and he begins to laugh loudly. He was sure no one from his time had even seen him laugh, and now he was laughing his loudest in front of Iron Man, his polar opposite.

With a bellow, the super soldier throws the glass from his hands, waiting until he hears the familiar sound of glass making impact with a floor to cease in his screaming. He waits, breathless, a silent invitation for the man accompanying him to do the same. And, suddenly, a dull roar turns into a vicious yell as the other man mirrors Steve's previous actions. When Tony's glass shatters, they both turn to each other.

There is a moment of brief silence, before the two men lost themselves in a fit of laughter. Tony leans on Steve, breathless, and Steve wipes a few stray tears from his eyes.

"Gosh," Steve breathes, and settles back down in a reclining position, "I literally haven't done that in _years_."

Tony snorts, appreciating the joke. "I can't say I'd ever thought you'd be the type to throw glasses from tall buildings."

"It's all Bucky's fault," Steve murmurs, before growing silent. It's not the time to be sentimental, especially when spending time with the least sentimental person on this planet. There's a moment in which his memories come in waves, jumbled events with no start and no finish, but he does his best to will them away. He sits up again, suddenly restless.

"It's weird," he states, after a long bout of companionable silence. Tony turns to him, inclining his head, a strange twinkle in his eyes, and Steve smiles, "Well, everything is weird, really. But," he scratches his head, "I just don't understand it. Sometimes, you remind me of him; so much so that I end up getting frustrated and just walk away. Other times," he pauses, debating whether or not to continue, "Other times, you're just such an _ass_."

Tony took the time to look scandalized. "Did you just cuss?"

Of course that was the only thing Tony absorbed, and Steve laughed again. It was easy, he found, if he took the time to find joy in some things. "I'm Captain America, not Captain Censorship," to which Tony chuckles. He then claps the soldier on the back.

"I always had hope in you," he wipes an imaginary tear, "I always knew you weren't always so medieval all of the time."

Steve scoffs, "I've killed more people in my lifetime than any of you have _collectively_," he pauses, "aside maybe from Thor. I fought in arguably the most gruesome war in history. I'm not as perfect as everyone makes me out to be." He stares at his palms, as even more memories flare up. Dead bodies, stacked on top of each other, an incinerator, the smell of burning flesh and stale blood. Blank, emotionless faces of those who had families, who he had killed without so much as a second thought.

He thought about the ones who had begged, who pleaded with his teammates and with him to let them go free. The agreement had been "no survivors," and they had stuck to it, for the most part. Steve could never bring himself to kill a man who had begged for his life. It was too cruel, too unjust, but when his teammates found the survivors, they were too furious to even entertain the thought of forgiveness.

Shuddering at the thought, he looked over to his teammate, who seemed to be mulling over his previous statement. When Tony caught the man's gaze, he inclined his head in a nod before coughing awkwardly into his fist.

"So, uh, what kind of stuff did you see in the war?"

"Yeah, Captain," came a cool voice from behind, and both men jumped so high they had to struggle to remain on top of the tower. Natasha looked down on them with a soft, playful smile. "What kind of stuff did you see in the war?"

The man shrugged, and turned to see the rest of his team standing awkwardly over by the stairs. He ushered them over with a hand, chuckling at their obedience. "So, you want ol' grandpa to regale you with tales from his youth?"

Clint, unapologetic in his ways, nodded with fervor. "I've always wanted to hear war stories from veterans! Man," he sighed, "this will be so much cooler than watching a documentary on you."

The group laughed, and Steve raised a confused eyebrow. "They have documentaries on me?" He knew there were films with him, obviously, because he had starred in them, but did people really care that much about him to go so far as to make a documentary? It was humbling, really.

"Yeah," Bruce chimed, stifling a laugh, "Some of them go into extensive detail about your little stint in Hollywood." At that, Steve flushed, and Tony rocked with laughter. Even Thor seemed intrigued.

"My Captain," he boomed, "You have been in these 'moo-vies' before? How does it feel? Is it painful?"

Steve shook his head, smiling, as Bruce and Natasha began to fill Thor in on the wonders of motion pictures. He, on the other hand, turned his attention to Clint and Tony.

"So, war stories."

"Yep."

"Mmm'yeah!"

Steve rolled his eyes. "I'll skip over the part where we liberate concentration camps and go straight to the HYDRA bases."

Tony's eyes bugged out, "You went into concentration camps?"

Steve fiddled with his thumbs, gnawing on the inside of his cheek for a moment before continuing, "Yeah, and it was never pretty. It was always the hardest missions. I'd break into a million HYDRA bases before I'd ever want to enter another one of those death camps."

The crowd had fallen silent, the rest of the team having found their seats in-between sentences. Of course, Steve thought with a grimace, they already knew the HYDRA stories. He picked at his palm for a moment, before looking everywhere but at them, and then resigning himself to begin the stories.

"They're death camps, guys," he deadpanned, but that wasn't enough. Another sigh, and he began to gift them with his knowledge of the past. He told them of death camps, located in the most dismal of areas, littered with bodies. He spoke of humans starved beyond the point of salvation, animated corpses with sallow, broken faces. Their eyes, always the worst, so dead and pained. How some of them would beg to be killed, how they would tell him and his team that the only reason they were alive was so they could see the fall of an empire. He couldn't bear to tell them of the time he had acquiesced, shot a man straight between the eyes because the man had just looked so _broken_, had begged him for so long that Steve couldn't even take it anymore. He mentioned the children, the experiments, everything he could remember about those damned places and their rotten air. The gas chambers, the showers, the smell of poisons and noxious fumes. He just remembered.

By the time his story was finished, he found himself hoisted in the air by Thor, in a bone-crushing hug that left him gasping for air. "My brother," he wiped away a tear, "you have fought well and hard in your life, and for that I commend you." He turned, summoning Mjölnir, before bowing in front of the now-perplexed soldier, resting on one knee. "It is my honor, and my privilege, to call you my Captain."

"Oh Captain, my Captain!" Clint stood, pumping his fists in the air, and Tony and Bruce laughed at the reference.

"I didn't know you read poetry, Hawkass."

Clint sneered, "I didn't know you told jokes, tinfoil man."

Natasha silenced them, before clapping a hand on Steve's shoulder. "I, too, am proud to call you my Captain."

There was a chorus of agreements, and Steve was overcome with a sense of pure joy. He had never thought that he would find a group of people who were so similar to the ghosts of his past, but he had. He had Bruce and Tony, two geniuses with enough brainpower to change the course of the universe; Clint, a sarcastic sniper with enough wit and sarcasm to bring down a circus; Natasha, who was so cold and brilliant, and who often reminded him of Peggy with her fierce determination and strong conviction; and, of course, Thor, who Steve couldn't hearken a likeness too, because no one was like Thor, he realized. He laughed at that, out loud, and his team turned to him amongst their squabbles.

"It would be my honor to be your Captain."

They stood in silence, awkwardly accepting that they had, indeed, shared a moment together. Steve glanced, forlornly, at his half-finished cigar, and found that suddenly old traditions weren't so prevalent in his mind. The silence stretched, before Tony began to get a little fidgety.

"So," he whistled, "Should we throw all of our hands in and do a collective group shout? I say, on three, we should all yell out, 'We want shawarma!' and then actually go get some shawarma."

There was no dissent, and everyone actually participated in the strange ritual, before they moved from the roof to gather their belongings to go out. Steve stood on the roof a moment longer, and took a deep breath before closing his eyes.

"Thank you," he said to no one, standing up and meandering his way off of the roof, "I owe you one, Buck-O." Because he knew, he always knew, that his loved ones were watching over him.

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_Merp. The tenses are a little wonky, but I can't bring myself to edit anymore. This was totally meant to have just been Steve and Tony angst, but the other Avengers are just so nosy! Always poking their noses in each others' business. Gah, I love 'em._

_Well, here's a shameless plug: I'll be writing a story on Steve that focuses primarily on his PTSD and his inability to see himself as a competent leader. I hope you'll all read it._

_However, leave a review! I'd love to hear what you have to say about this~ _


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